Chapter 9: The Shadow Wolf's Gambit and the Road to the Bleeding Sun
The decision, once made, settled within Torrhen with the cold, hard finality of a winter ice floe locking into place. The whispers from Asshai were too potent a lure, the promise of dragon eggs too crucial to his centuries-spanning design, to be ignored or delegated. King Maegor's brutal reign and his unpredictable rages made any prolonged, unexplained absence from the North a gamble of monumental proportions. But Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, had become a master of calculated risks, his entire second life a testament to patience, foresight, and the ruthless application of hidden knowledge.
His plan for deception was intricate, a multi-layered construct worthy of Nicolas Flamel at his most cunning. He would not feign illness; illness invited scrutiny, physicians, and the prying eyes of Maesters who might report to the Citadel, and thence to King's Landing. Nor would he embark on a grand, public progress through his own domain; such journeys were too easily tracked, his absence from specific locations too readily noted. Instead, he would orchestrate a "disappearance" that was both plausible and subtly unsettling, one that would allow him the months, perhaps even the year or more, he estimated the journey to Asshai and back might require.
His chosen cover was a solitary, extended "Great Hunt" deep into the uncharted regions of the Wolfswood, bordering the foothills of the northernmost mountains – a vast, sparsely populated wilderness where a man, even a Lord Warden, could plausibly lose himself for a season or two, perhaps even meet with an unfortunate, untraceable "accident" if his return was delayed beyond explanation. It was a pursuit fitting for a Stark, a traditional way for the lords of Winterfell to commune with the old gods and test their mettle. Few would question its authenticity.
To his inner circle, his sons and his most trusted household knights, he announced his intention for this extended hunt, framing it as a need for solitude, a desire to reconnect with the ancient spirit of the North after two decades of relentless administration. "The weight of governance grows heavy," he'd told Cregan, his voice carefully tinged with a weariness that was not entirely feigned. "I need to feel the bite of the wind and the thrill of the chase, to remember what it is we strive to protect."
Cregan, ever the warrior, had grumbled about the timing, with Maegor's unpredictable temperament a constant shadow, but he respected the tradition. "The North will be here when you return, Father. I will see to its strength." There was a new confidence in Cregan's voice, a readiness to assume command that Torrhen noted with a flicker of grim approval. This journey would also be a test for his heir.
Edric, quieter and more perceptive, had looked at him with a troubled expression. "The deep woods are perilous, Father. And the mountains… legends speak of things best left undisturbed."
"I am a Stark of Winterfell, Edric," Torrhen had replied, a rare, almost gentle smile touching his lips. "The wild is in our blood. Besides," he added, a subtle glint in his eye, "I intend to map some of those uncharted valleys. There may be resources there the North could use – iron, perhaps even silver." This was a half-truth, a breadcrumb for Edric's scholarly mind, a plausible reason for prolonged exploration.
He meticulously laid the groundwork. He delegated specific responsibilities: Cregan was given overt command of Winterfell's defenses and the Warden's military duties. Edric was tasked with overseeing the granaries, the trade ledgers, and, most discreetly, with maintaining the coded correspondence with Ilyrio Motts in Pentos, using a new, even more complex cipher Torrhen had devised, ostensibly for "sensitive trade negotiations." Old Ser Rodrik Cassel, his limbs now stiff with age but his mind still sharp and his loyalty absolute, was made Castellan, the ultimate authority within Winterfell's walls in Cregan's absence or if both sons were called away.
His most crucial deception involved his own chambers. Flamel's knowledge included subtle alchemical preparations and minor enchantments designed to create an atmosphere of presence, of recent habitation. He treated his personal solar with solutions that would slowly release faint, familiar scents – old parchment, Northern pine, a hint of the herbs he sometimes used in his private studies. He left specific books open, notes seemingly half-written on his desk, his favorite hunting cloak draped over a chair. For the first few weeks of his "hunt," he even arranged for a trusted, tight-lipped servant to deliver meals to his chambers, to be discreetly disposed of later, maintaining the illusion of his brooding, solitary presence within the castle before his supposed departure for the deep woods.
The journey to Asshai would require immense wealth, not just for the eggs themselves, but for bribes, for passage on ships that asked no questions, for protection in the lawless ports of the far east. Over the years, Torrhen had cultivated a vast, hidden fortune. Flamel's understanding of finance, of investments that compounded over decades, had allowed him to turn the North's modest surplus and his own carefully managed landholdings into a significant personal treasury, much of it held in easily transportable, high-value commodities like gemstones, platinum ingots, and ancient Valyrian steel coins hoarded since before the Doom, acquired through his Pentoshi agents. He now began the process of consolidating a significant portion of this wealth. Under the guise of acquiring rare materials for "improving Northern steel" or "experimental agricultural techniques," he had his agents convert these assets into a cache of flawless diamonds, rubies of exceptional size, and bars of pure, unblemished gold – items that would be recognized and valued even in the shadowed markets of Asshai. This treasure was then divided and sewn into the linings of specially prepared, unremarkable-looking traveling cloaks and satchels.
His transformation was the final step. Torrhen Stark, Lord of Winterfell, would vanish. In his place would emerge 'Vorlag', a taciturn, middle-aged scholar and merchant from the northern Free Cities, perhaps Tyrosh or Myr, dealing in rare manuscripts and arcane curiosities. Flamel had been a master of personas, and Torrhen drew upon that deep well of experience. He subtly altered his appearance: his hair, already streaked with grey, was dyed a mousy brown and cut shorter, in a less distinctively Northern style. He used alchemical tinctures to temporarily darken his skin tone, giving it a more weathered, sun-touched appearance common in Essos. He adopted a slight stoop, the careful, observant posture of a scholar, and altered his gait. His voice, already controlled, was pitched slightly differently, with a faint, difficult-to-place accent he had practiced for months. He even had a set of spectacles crafted with plain, non-magnifying lenses, adding to the scholarly image. The Valyrian steel sword, Ice, was left behind, far too conspicuous. Instead, he carried a fine but unremarkable arming sword of Tyroshi make and a selection of well-hidden daggers, the assassin's tools never truly abandoned.
His departure from Winterfell was a masterpiece of misdirection. After weeks of the feigned brooding seclusion, during which his "hunting party" was supposedly being assembled in a remote northern holdfast, he slipped away from Winterfell in the dead of night, alone, disguised as a simple provisioner. He left behind a series of sealed letters for his sons and Ser Rodrik, to be opened at staggered intervals, detailing his supposed progress deeper into the Wolfswood, filled with fabricated accounts of tracking elusive prey and discovering hidden valleys. These letters would provide a trail of false information, ensuring that if any inquiries came from King's Landing, a plausible narrative of his whereabouts could be maintained for months.
He did not travel west towards the more familiar port of White Harbor. Instead, he journeyed east, through the sparsely populated lands towards the coast of the Narrow Sea, aiming for a tiny, forgotten fishing village north of the Weeping Water, a place so insignificant it rarely saw a ship larger than a smuggler's skiff. Here, after weeks of solitary, arduous travel, living off the land as he had in his youth, he met a pre-arranged contact – a grim-faced Braavosi smuggler whose silence had been bought with a significant down payment of Stark gold, delivered months earlier by one of Ilyrio's most trusted couriers.
The voyage across the Narrow Sea was rough, the small ship ill-suited for the autumn gales. Vorlag kept to himself, a quiet passenger amidst a rough crew, his true identity and the vast wealth hidden in his modest baggage utterly unsuspected. He spent the long days at sea in a state of deep mental focus, reviewing Flamel's knowledge of Asshai, of shadowbinders, of the intricate and often deadly etiquette of dealing with those who trafficked in forbidden magic. He also practiced his Occlumency relentlessly, knowing that Asshai was a place where minds were not always private, where enchantments and illusions were commonplace.
His first major stop in Essos was not Pentos, where Ilyrio Motts resided and where he might be too easily recognized despite his disguise, but the sprawling, chaotic port of Volantis, the oldest and proudest of the Free Cities. Here, amidst the towering black walls of the Old City and the teeming, multi-ethnic throngs of the new, 'Vorlag' the scholar could blend in more easily. He found passage on a larger, more seaworthy trading vessel bound eastwards, one that would take him through the Summer Sea, past the Basilisk Isles, and into the Jade Sea. The journey would be long, months at sea, fraught with pirates, storms, and disease.
Before leaving Volantis, he dispatched a coded message to Ilyrio via a trusted commercial courier service that operated between the Free Cities. It confirmed his progress and instructed Ilyrio to prepare for the final stages of their plan: the authentication of the contact in Asshai and the arrangement of a secure meeting, if possible. He knew that direct communication would be impossible once he ventured further east. His warging abilities, so useful in the North, were useless across such vast oceanic distances. He was truly on his own, relying on his wits, Flamel's knowledge, and the network he had so patiently built.
The voyage east was an education in itself. Torrhen, or rather Vorlag, observed everything. He saw the opulence and decay of the ancient civilizations of Slaver's Bay, the exotic wonders and terrifying dangers of Qarth with its proud Pureborn and enigmatic Warlocks. He learned to navigate the complex tapestry of Essosi cultures, languages, and currencies, his mind absorbing information like a dry sponge. Flamel's memories provided a baseline understanding, but experiencing it firsthand was different, sharpening his adaptability. He avoided trouble, kept a low profile, and used his alchemically enhanced senses to detect danger before it materialized. On more than one occasion, a subtly brewed sleeping draught shared with overly curious shipmates or a well-placed rumor started in a dockside tavern averted potential threats to his mission.
The wealth he carried was a constant burden, a source of immense power but also of terrible risk. He slept little, always alert, his hand never far from a hidden blade. He had divided the gemstones and gold into multiple caches, some sewn into his clothing, others hidden in false bottoms of his manuscript cases, a few even concealed within hollowed-out loaves of hard bread he carried as part of his rations.
As their ship, the Sun Chaser, finally rounded the Jade Gates and entered the foreboding waters that led towards the southernmost tip of the known world, the atmosphere changed. The skies grew darker, the sun, when it appeared, seemed a bruised and bleeding orb. The very air felt heavy, ancient, and filled with an unseen, oppressive magic. Sailors fell silent, their usual boisterousness replaced by a sullen apprehension. Asshai-by-the-Shadow was near.
They anchored in the vast, black harbor of Asshai under a sky the colour of a perpetual twilight, even at what should have been midday. The city itself was a terrifying marvel, built entirely of greasy black stone that seemed to drink the light. Its buildings were immense, cyclopean structures that soared to impossible heights, their architecture alien and unsettling. There were no children to be seen, no birds sang, no dogs barked. Only silent, cloaked figures moved through the wide, empty streets, their faces hidden in shadow. The air was cold, despite the city's southern latitude, and carried the faint, metallic tang of sorcery and something else… decay.
Vorlag, his expression carefully neutral but his senses screaming with a mixture of alchemical curiosity and profound unease, paid for his passage and disembarked. He had memorized Ilyrio's instructions: seek out a specific, crumbling inn near the easternmost docks, a place called 'The Serpent's Coil', known to be a discreet meeting place for those dealing in… unusual commodities. There, he was to ask for a room overlooking the Ash, the black river that flowed through the city, and await contact.
Finding The Serpent's Coil was an ordeal in itself. The streets of Asshai were a labyrinth, and the few inhabitants he encountered either ignored him or stared with disconcerting intensity from the depths of their cowls. He felt the constant pressure of unseen eyes, the subtle probe of magic against his Occlumency shields. Flamel's training held; his mind remained a closed fortress.
The inn, when he finally found it, was as dilapidated and ominous as described, its black stone walls streaked with slime, its windows like vacant eyes. The innkeeper was a gaunt, silent man with skin like parchment and eyes that held no light, who simply grunted and gestured towards a narrow, winding staircase when Vorlag requested the specific room.
The room was small, damp, and sparsely furnished, with a single, grime-streaked window overlooking the sluggish, oily black waters of the River Ash. It reeked of ancient dust and forgotten despair. This was to be his base of operations in the most dangerous city in the world.
Torrhen Stark, now fully immersed in his persona as Vorlag, sat on the edge of the lumpy cot, the sounds of the alien city a muted hum beyond the walls. He had made it. He was in Asshai, a place few from Westeros had ever seen and from which even fewer returned. The risks he had taken were immense, the journey perilous. But the potential reward – three dragon eggs, the key to securing the North's future, the power to defy fate itself – was now tantalizingly close.
He reached into his satchel and withdrew a small, lead-lined vial containing a single, highly concentrated dose of a potion Flamel had called 'Clarity of the Void' – designed to sharpen all senses to a preternatural degree, heighten magical perception, and fortify the will against external influence for a short but critical period. He would need it for his meeting with the shadowbinder.
The waiting began. Days bled into the perpetual twilight, marked only by the changing tides of the Ash. He ventured out cautiously, observing the city, its strange inhabitants, its even stranger customs. He saw shadowbinders perform feats of magic in the darkened squares that would have been deemed impossible in Westeros, their forms elongating and twisting, their voices commanding unseen forces. He saw priests in grotesque masks chanting to gods whose names were blasphemies in the Seven Kingdoms. He felt the raw, untamed magic that saturated the very stones of Asshai, a power far more potent and dangerous than the fading enchantments of Westeros.
Then, on the fifth night, as he sat by his window, staring into the blackness of the river, there was a soft scratching at his door, a sound no louder than a rat's claw on stone.
His hand went to the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath his robes.
"Enter," Vorlag said, his voice calm, betraying nothing of the sudden surge of adrenaline.
The door creaked open, and a figure glided in, cloaked and cowled in the Asshai fashion, their face completely obscured by shadow. The air in the room grew perceptibly colder.
"You are the one who seeks the fire lizards' tears?" a voice whispered, sibilant and genderless, like the rustling of dry leaves.
Torrhen Stark, the Shadow Wolf of the North, nodded slowly. "I am. And I have come a long way to find them."
The game in Asshai was about to begin. And the price, he knew, would be far more than just gold.